


Sandcastles

by ays



Category: Naruto
Genre: Amnesia, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BAMF Haruno Sakura, Dark, Gen, Haruno Sakura-centric, Kekkei Genkai | Bloodline Limit, Light Angst, Missing-Nin, Morally Ambiguous Character, Original Character(s), Sakura - Freeform, Team Feels, Temporary Amnesia, but then she doesn't, i do not know, i'll change the summary, sakura dies ????, sorry - Freeform, this is like for fun, wandering, wave mission goes wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ays/pseuds/ays
Summary: Sakura dies, but not really. Sakura dies, but then she's not Sakura anymore —  she's Chiharu and she has a goal that surmounts all the missing memories she craves for.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

Mist surrounds them and a heavy feeling of forebonding, of death seeps into her pores. Sakura has never felt something like this, so draining and scary and _strong_. It eats at her, makes her lungs constrict and her breath stutter and she's sure, oh so sure, that the grip on her kunai has never been steadier but trembling before.

She doesn't know exactly where it went wrong, when her brain decided that instincts matter more than logistics and all rationalities left her completely.

The enemy-nin, Zabuza, has Kakashi-sensei trapped on the water and Naruto and Sasuke-kun are working together perfectly, like the team the three of them are supposed to be. She doesn't know when nor why she takes a step to the left, but she does and her brain and limbs seem to slow, too untrained to nitpick at the screams of the bridgebuilder.

She sees the exact moment Zabuza's arm retracts, his jutsu dropping instantly, as if it has never been there to begin with. She sees it but she doesn't understand it, because there's a painful twist to her ribs. She sees it, but it's too close than it should be, because suddenly she's _soaring_ and skimming over the water, her body bending strangely.

The screams are loud but her hearing is muffled and Sakura can't catch it, can't possibly understand what Naruto and Sasuke-kun are saying.

The instant in which she meets the water, she doesn't think she'll ever be able to forget _that._ The liquid is cold, freezingly so, but every inch of her skin seems to burn in retilation, as if paper is cutting all over her bare arms and shins. Her clothes are heavy on her body and it's hard to move her arms, to kick her legs and _try_ — she just needs to try — to breathe again.

There's a wave, a powerful one, and Sakura's ribs hurt and she doesn't think she can do it after all. The movement of the water brings her down, whatever progress she had done in the last few seconds disappearing.

Another wave and her eyes are burning, her legs feel weak and she feels like her head might explode — Sakura has never thought she would die during her first mission out of Konoha.

It's sad and embarrassing, because maybe if she was a bit more kunoichi and a lot less fangirl, a bit more agile and a lot less feminine, she would be able to get back to her team, to finish the mission with them.

But darkness is closing in, ravaging at the ends of her mind, and she stops fighting it because what's the point? She can barely feel her limbs, as weak and strained as they are under the rough sea, she can taste the mud of sand and salted water and, quite frankly, Sakura is okay with that.

No, that's wrong.

She's not okay, not by a long shot, and she doesn't accept it — but there's nothing she can do, as she faintly feels another strong wave leading her further from Team 7.

Haruno Sakura closes her eyes one last time, head filled with regrets and what ifs.

And then she opens them again and there's a towel surrounding her thin shoulders, a dark-haired woman looking at her with worry-filled eyes.

She's talking and she thinks her voice sounds gentle and warm, but her ears hurt and she can feel something trickle down her neck. She tries to move her hand, to stop the water dripping, but it hurts to move and the woman is already doing it for her.

It's weird and sudden and she hates it, the feeling of someone else's chakra inside her body, but it helps with her hearing and so she's grateful all the same.

"Are you okay?" the nice woman asks and she notices how it's the same questions she has asked mere minutes ago. She nods, tentatively, but the rational part of her brain tells her that it's a lie.

She doesn't know if she's well, because she doesn't know much anymore. She _knows_ she's missing something, just as she knows that there's chakra running steadily in her body and the sun is a star and the sky is blue — but the woman is asking too many questions and she doesn't have an answer to either of them.

"Can you tell me your name?" she whispers and it's a soft breath of air, caressing at her arm as the woman runs another wave of chakra over it. This time she shakes her head, because she isn't even sure she has one.

There's another woman there and she can smell her before she sees or hears her, the stench of alcohol vaguely tugging at _something_ but not strong enough to let her come up with an answer. She's pretty too, she notices, but it's a different kind of beautiful from the woman who has been healing her since she opened her eyes. It's all soft lines, but sharp edged with a past that she's sure she will never be able to understand — eyes hard and soft at the same time, skin unblemished but clearly rough.

"I'm Shizune," says the woman and she stares silently, because her throat hurts and it feels like there's a pond in her chest, complete with bacteria and squirming fish. She attempts a giggle at the thought, but all that comes out is a choking sound and too soon for it to be normal, tan hands have moved from her arm to her throat.

"I don't know my name," she croaks out when talking feels safe again. The look Shizune shares with the blonde woman doesn't fail her, but she ignores it all the same.

She stares at herself instead, because the red qipao she's wearing is sticky on her skin and her head feels bare, and there's a shoe missing and she isn't too sure _where_ she could have possibly lost it. 

"Well, brat," sighs the blonde woman and she gives her all her attention instantly, because she has already catalogued as a possible threat in her mind. "Guess we're bringing you home. Where are you from?"

And she tries, really, to come up qith an answer. She thinks that maybe _home_ might be warm, and with a lot of greens, but she's not sure all the same because she can vaguely remember the frigid cold of snow and the strong light reflecting off of it.

The confusion must be evident on her face, because the busty woman groans loudly and huffs and suddenly she feels like a burden. And that feeling gains her a flinch, so familiar and miserable.

She's hoisted up easily and she thinks it's a bit weird, and maybe discouraging, how such a young and thin looking woman can drag her around like she weighs nothing, but she accepts it for what it is and lets her eyes close again.


	2. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be really dark and Sakura/Chiharu is a morally grey character in this. Do not read if you're triggered, i've updated the tags

It's cold, almost freezing, and her limbs feel stuck. Breathing, such a simple and automatic action, comes harder than it should — and her heart thrums in her chest, behind her ribcage, because she can feel people, like they're just barely there, hidden from sight but brushing at her skin with the gentle touch of a hurricane.

She hates it, infinitely so, and her eyelids stick together for a while longer; until there's movement from one of the  _ presences _ , and it's clear and loud and so very visible when it shouldn't be.

She puts her metaphorical big pants on, all the more imaginary considering the bare skin of her legs brushing with the sheets of a rickety bed, and opens her eyes.

Just to close them again as the cold lights of the room make pain flare behind her orbs.

"Shizune!"

If she could, she thinks she would be covering her ears with her hands. The sound is not muffled, like it was when she first woke up, but instead it's louder and it echoes and aches behind her temples, shaking the walls of her mind.

Steps, rushed and agile and almost completely silent, resound towards her and she hides a flinch when a hand grazes at her shoulder.

She knows she should try again, open her eyes and suck whatever pain she is feeling up, but there's this irrational —  _ stupid  _ voice in her mind that tells her to keep it up, to let her eyes rest a bit more and enjoy the seemingly moment of peace before it breaks.

She doesn't know about the before — before the drowning, the mud on her tongue, the constriction of her lungs and the burning of her eyes — but she thinks she might hate her, the Voice, from today on.

There's nothing peaceful about this; she's not safe, no matter how gentle the smiles of the medic or the strong presence of the blonde. She's a mystery to even herself, amnesiac and lost and with no one who knows her here — and she, the Voice, might say it's peaceful and safe and cozy all she wants, but she knows it's not.

Green eyes are serious as they take in her surroundings, quickly getting used to the strong light of the room. There's a window on her right side, slightly ajar and it would be easy, so so easy, to jump through it and make a run for it. The way to the door is slightly obstructed, Shizune standing a bit too close to it now that she's awake and sitting.

The blonde woman is silent as she stares, amber eyes taking her in. She must not think much of her, however, because soon enough her gaze moves back to the bottle clutched in her hands.

She's alright with that — she doesn't know  _ what,  _ but she can do something if need ever comes. And retreat seems the most plausible option; she might not remember herself, but she remembers hours spent in an anonymous training ground, books filled with information on shinobi and plants and far away lands.

"Where am I?" The question leaves her lips with a shuddering breath, lips trembling but voice considerably steady. It's acceptable, she thinks. They won't take it as a weakness, but simply a show of her cold cold body.

"Shukuba Town," whispers gently Shizune and she nods silently. The name of the town doesn't instigate anything in her, there's no sense of belonging, no previous knowledge that tells her this is  _ home _ .

She wants to ask, what now? Are they going to leave her here alone, or perhaps escort her to her home? Are they going to take her in and treat her like family, or ship her off to someone else and forget this encounter soon?

She doesn't. There's no need to.

The blonde stands, with a special kind of regalcy that she never thought a drunk could have, and Shizune seems to know her signs well enough to take meaning in her single step.

"Brat you're healed. We'll leave you in the care of the owner," she murmurs, no feeling detectable in her voice. She finds it too detached, too intransigent to be the voice of such a young woman — is she older than she looks?

She doesn't comment as the blonde leaves the room in big but elegant strides, but she can see the narrowing of Shizune's eyebrows, the pursing of her lips that says — screams — that this is not ok.

She shrugs and sends a smile to the brunette, because she's tired and there's no place in herself for meaningless pity. Her head hurts and the Voice hasn't stopped talking, commenting and sneering.

It's only after the door closes behind Shizune with a soft  _ click!, _ that she lets herself be lulled back into sleep.

* * *

  
  


Tazuna has never felt the guilt hang over his shoulder this strongly. The what ifs that fill his mind are heavy and mean and the image of the little girl, soft pink hair and timid blushes directed at her teammate, drowning before his eyes it's hard to erase.

He knows that he's not completely at fault, somewhere in himself. He knows that shinobi die on the daily, that he probably got only a few months out of her already very-short life span, but she was a child.

A child, not even a teenager or a seasoned woman. Twelve and gentle and naïve and Tazuna's got her killed. He knows that it will always stay with him and that the guilt will never go away, but he also knows that on the other side there's an entire country that is suffering.

A country that needs him, for which he has worked hard day and night and almost got killed, for which his son-in-law died. But as the silence hangs heavy on the group, he imagines his own grandson in her place.

The idea of Inari dying, because an old man decided that his wellbeing was more important than his, makes his stomach churn.

And he also knows that he can never understand what the three males with him are feeling. The team leader, a jōnin whose names precedes him and speaks highly of his skills, is eerily silent as he stares at the sky.

Tazuna wonders if he too is feeling guilty or if he is simply reminiscing of a child that could have been, but has been strapped too soon from this corrupt world. Dogs have been sent out from the moment he woke up, retracing their steps and nearing the waters of the very rough sea in hopes of finding the little girl.

Tazuna feels twice his age, when he watches Naruto and Sasuke staring silently at the ground. Naruto is an ugly crier, all loud sobs and spit and snot, but he's also uncharacteristically silent. Gone is the lively mind that has accompanied him for most of the travel, instead overshadowed by a deep sense of sorrow and guilt and mourning that Tazuna can't comprehend.

The Uchiha is different, almost detached in his mourning. Eyes glassy and staring through everything, as if nothing was there to surround him but memories upon memories. Tazuna wonders if maybe the death of the pinkette has triggered something, some deeply buried feeling. But he can see it, the sadness and helplessness behind his gaze.

The lack of bickering and snark remarks is the biggest indicator, however, that both the boys are too out of it to properly function.

Tazuna, for all his faults, can't bring it upon himself to gibe at them. He might not be a shinobi, a valorous soldier with a village's best interests in mind, but he knows loss. And they might lead different lives, with different coping mechanisms and activities, but loss is the same for everyone.

It consumes you like termites eat at wood, slowly and unforgiving and never stopping. For every person that you lose, each affection that is not beside you anymore, a part of your soul chips away — and that's why, when dinner time descends upon them on their second day in his house, Tazuna silences his grandson.

Because Inari has suffered and there's no doubt about it, but the wounds of the shinobi who still continue to protect him are fresh and have scratched at feelings that they had long since buried.

"Inari! Apologize." His voice is unforgiving and steely and maybe it's the first time he uses it towards his grandson, but he can't help the disappointment brimming in his chest. Because they might be children, but they're shinobi — and they know they might lose their life in less than a week, one of them has already, but they're keeping as steady as they can. They're mourning and broken right now, but they're still training hard day and night and protecting him from Gato's evil hands.

He sighs loudly when Inari leaves the room, tears pooling in his eyes and waves the looks of his daughter away.

Tazuna might not be a shinobi, but he's a warrior in his own way. He will continue to fight with his teeth clenched, just like his guards are, and he will let his ambiguous feelings take hold of himself only when his country is safe again.

Until then, he will sweat, cry and bleed — so that the death of a young girl won't be insulted.

* * *

  
  


Chimatsuri Kou is not a nice man. She comes to the conclusion easily but strongly, as she watches silently the hard lines of his face and the amused eyes.

She has been in his care for a little over a week, but sometimes it feels infinitely longer.

It's the way red eyes brush at her body, like she was some exotic breed that he finds fascinating; how when the patrons get handsy, his face does not flash with rage but with misplaced jealousy.

It's when she wakes up in the middle of the night and finds him staring at her, one of his rough hands in his pants and eyes lidded with pleasure.

When he gives her a name, something that should make her feel secure and home and herself, but instead shudders shake her body in fear and disgust simply for the way he pronounces it.

_ Chiharu. _

It's a pretty name. It shouldn't make her feel like this, dirty and filthy to the brim. It shouldn't make her want to hide when he stretches the syllables, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips.

_ Chi-ha-ru. _

It pushes at her, at the already fragile limits of her mind. The Voice, usually loud and obnoxious in her own head, stills when faced with the sound of her new name, trembles and gasps as if she knows exactly what he's implying.

Chiharu —  _ Chi-ha-ru  _ — doesn't, but she trusts her instincts enough. And she trusts the Voice, the only one who has been with her since the beginning, the only one who would never abandon her.

So when she wakes up in the night, feeling an uncomfortable pressure weighing on her legs, she listens to the Voice — it whispers sweet nothing inside her own head, it blocks out all that is happening in the outside world. It embraces her and it calms her, it makes it possible for her not to make a sound, not to alert him of her awake state.

But Chiharu and the Voice decide that they're not going to stay silent anymore, when fingers graze at her panties and tug.

The Voice screams inside her head, enraged but weak, disappointed by the outer world. Chiharu can't blame her — she thrusts her fists and tries to bend her legs, to make it harder for him to do anything.

It doesn't work and one of his odious hands finds her face, fingers pressing on the soft curve of her nose and thenar keeping her mouth shut. Her legs stop thrashing, momentarily, as she tries to come up with something, anything — the Voice is still screaming, pain and fear and misery in her blood-chilling cries.

The Voice whispers, seething with rage, and Chiharu listens. Her knee jerks up and Kou's face pales at the pain, but she's not done. The Voice is comfortable in her guidances, as if this is her role, what she's good at and what she's there for; open your palms, it says, slap under the chin.

Again, with more force. Bend his fingers, he shouldn't have touched us. Bend more more more more —  _ crack!  _ Chiharu wants to breathe, to sit back and get his blood, hers, off of her body.

She doesn't have time, says the Voice. She needs to finish him, because he wants to hurt them. Chakra — she thinks it's chakra. She knows the notions behind it but she has never tried it since she has lost her memories — flares at her core, strong and palpable in the air.

The Voice growls, animalistic and feral, and suddenly Chiharu moves. It's quick — _ too quick,  _ she realizes — but her hand is coated in blood, flesh and meat and slimy muscle grasped by her fingers. His eyes are wide and scared, right until they lose all remnants of life.

It stills after that, that gruttural sound she has found solace in in the past two to three weeks. It watches in silence as Chiharu trembles, as she scrubs her hands clean until the late hours of the night.

It sneers but never speaks when she begs and begs and begs for forgiveness to the Gods, when she sits down with her back to the wall and lets her jade eyes  _ watch  _ the muscles become stiff, the pallor of his skin in the brimly dawn-lit room.

_ Rigor mortis,  _ supplies the Voice, her other self, her saviour after hours of silence. Chiharu nods, recognizing the signs of a freshly dead body.

It should disgust her, she should be more... shaken by this, she thinks. She should be crying and if she were a nice person, a morally-driven one, she would head to the police station and admit her faults.

Chiharu realizes she's not, however. After the initial shock of death, the warmth of the blood on her fingers and the disgust of the flesh under her fingernails, there's nothing left. Or better yet, nothing left of those miserable feelings that make a person  _ normal _ .

She feels elated, almost. Pent-up energy makes her fingers twitch, because, she admits to herself and the Voice, she wants more.

She falls asleep, finally, when the sun breaks its ascend in the sky, and the Voice decides to whisper her final words for the day.

_ It's a dog eats dog world,  _ she says. _ And we'll be the most rabid of them all. _


	3. II

Kakashi has had to deal with his fair share of grief over his life. First it was his mother, but he was so young he can barely remember her gentle face and warm eyes anymore. Then came his father, and there there is a pull that screams of guilt and what ifs. And his entire team, the one he was knows he has failed - Obito's eye a strong reminder of what could have been and what he promised himself he would protect.

Sakura's death was unexpected. Between his three gēnins, he thought she would be the last one he would need to worry about. She wasn't a powerhouse, she didn't have talents and genetics to back her up, but she was mostly level headed.

All it took was a misstep, quite a literal one, for her to lose her life. And Kakashi has failed again.

He has his own defences against grief, the walls he has built so tall and apparently strong, but their foundations are weak. But if he can somehow deal with his own grief, given time and the help of his obnoxious friends, he doesn't know how to handle the one of others.

So Kakashi fidgets uncharacteristically in front of Sakura's apartment, the very image of a bearer of bad news. The woman that greets him has a cheerful smile on her face, almond shaped eyes shining in mirth as a laugh resounds from another room.

Kakashi feels all the more guilty.

She stills when she notices his hitai-ate, his somber look and the blue headband clasped between his fingers. It's the only thing his dogs could find, brought ashore by the rough waves and still faintly smelling of Sakura's peach shampoo.

The scent is gone now, overshadowed by the one of his team who has held onto it for more than a week.

The woman is silent and all traces of past amusement have left her, as her trembling hand steals the headband from him. Her shoulders sag a bit and he has to hide a flinch at the look of despair and misery and loss she sends to him.

She lets him in silently and the jōnin bows his head in thanks, and maybe grief but most likely shame.

Kakashi has been fighting the waves of shame and guilt, as strong as the ones that made Sakura go under and under in Wave, for most of his life - but these ones feels different, more painful and unforgiving.

He sits on the couch, the old woman - Sakura's grandmother, maybe - already sitting sending him a scathing look. He doesn't know if it's because he's a shinobi, or if maybe she has already understood why he's here.

The talk goes as well as one might think: which is, not at all. Emiko, Sakura's mother, screams and cries as she clutches at the washed out hitai-ate, body trembling by her hiccups. The old woman is silent as she takes in all of his words with an eagle-eye he has occasionally seen in Sakura's own stare, when he prodded her to use her mind during training.

It's unsettling but he hangs on, because it's his responsibility - one that he cannot be tardy to, one that he can't ignore no matter how much he wants to.

"One can only hope," says the old woman and Kakashi is confused by her tone, almost unsurprised but still grieving. Mebuki looks up at those words, blue eyes wide in wonder and pain, so much of it that Kakashi thinks he might feel sick.

He finds himself hopelessly wishing he had been a better teacher, one more interested in his sole female student's life — because Sakura was his responsibility, one of his cute little gēnins: and now there's the presence of two grieving women weighing on his shoulders, all because he isn't capable enough.

Those thoughts will only hurt him in the end, though, so he pushes them back and decides that enough is enough.

"I am truly sorry for your loss. Sakura was going to be an exemplary kunoichi and it is sad to have seen her depart so young," he says. The words feel like a lie on his lips, fake and studied. Sakura was going to be an exemplary kunoichi, but he had never seen her as more than a support fangirl.

Shame washes over him again as the old woman eyes him wearily, as if she can see through his soul and mind, but he pushes it back. He always does.

"If you need anything, Team 7 will always be ready to help you. Sakura will forever be our precious teammate."

And he lets a dry smile hide the despair he's feeling in front of failure, because those words are even more of a lie. Another gēnin, most likely one of those that have failed the final test, will be shoved into their team as if they did belong.

Kakashi leaves the house silently, but in the dead of the night he dreams of big blue eyes full of hope in front of the mere possibility _\- that does not exist -_ of seeing her daughter again. He dreams of past failures and fresh ones, of blood and lives he couldn't save.

For a while longer, Kakashi hates himself.

* * *

The police doesn't come and the Voice in her head starts to get restless. It screams dark thoughts at her, goads her into running away — but Chiharu doesn't want to run.

The adrenaline from the night before has left her body a tired, overworked mess and Chiharu thinks that if she even tried taking a step out of the inn, she might faint. There's no euphoria left behind, no vile _need_ to tear at Kou's limbs savagely and dump him in the middle of the street — all that's left are basic notions of society, morality weighing on her shoulders.

What she did was _wrong._

And she trembles, because it took her hours of watching an already dead body slowly break down into the stages of early decay to realize something as simple and natural as that. Thus Chiharu wonders. Maybe she's not normal at all, maybe she has lost more than the memories when she drowned.

Or maybe they haven't lost anything, whispers the Voice. Maybe they have finally found themselves: with insticts so primal and ferocious in front of danger, the ability to find _joy_ (and Chiharu can't deny that, not when with her fingers deep into the man's throat she felt a laugh bubble behind her own) in things that other may state wrong.

Maybe they're just different. They're more than the others, presses the Voice; they're more powerful, more agile, more cunning. They judge less and act more, because they're not trying to take the stead of the Gods — all they're trying to do is survive in a world that is already compromised.

Chiharu doesn't know what to think about that. But the Voice is right on one thing, as she whispers and pressures and demands: they have to get out of this place.

Her legs aren't as steady as she wants them to be when she stands up, muscles strained by the continuous position she has had them sitting. But it's alright, she thinks. She doesn't have many personal belongings, all she has is the filthy kimono draped over her shoulders and a name she has long since decided would be her own. 

Names are good. They give her meaning, a reason to be strong. This one, she decides, will forever be a part of her — not because who gave it to her was someone dear to her, but because of its implications. Chiharu. A thousand springs. And she thinks, with a morbid smile as she stares at the dead, she might have already burned through one of her springs.

It's a reminder. Of what she did, what she _had to do_ , and a promise. Chiharu won't let anyone else feel the same crippling fear, the disgust and the sense of misplacement she felt for the past few weeks if she could — she won't let people like Kou believe they're safe in their depravity.

Her smile is a bit more fresh, sunnier as she leaves the room as silently as a ghost. None of the townspeople look twice in her direction as she walks past them, headed for the tall woods of Hi no Kuni.

* * *

_God's complex_ , she thinks while cleaning one of her blades. _What an utterly stupid notion._

She passes a rough hand through her well-cut short hair, a few strands of anonymous brown now stained blood red.

She believes she doesn't have anything as far-fetched and stupid as _that_. Others, however, might have some complexity to them — like the six men laying dead a mile south-west from her. She has to bite back a chuckle at the thought of them.

They, in their human stupidity and exaggerated confidence, have been more difficult to take out than the others; she could appreciate something like that. She regrets killing them, letting them off so easily — the black haired one seemed _so_ interesting.

The way his eyes showed fear throughout her first five kills, limbs trembling and the stench of his fear filling the crispy air of a spring morning. Then she approached him, steps measured and louder than the usual, to instill that additional amount of terror.

A knife to the throat, posed gently and only nicking at his tanned skin — and his entire demeanour changed.

He was interesting. Eyes that burned with a fire she hadn't seen in years, lips settled in anticipation and acceptance — he had been the only one of the men to completely accept his destiny, to understand what death meant and how inescapable it was.

She grins, resting one of her karambits back on her thigh hostler. Yes, humans are funny creatures, she thinks as she observes the pink haired girl calmly walking towards her.


End file.
